


Two Straight Lines

by spiderine



Category: Captain America - All Media Types, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Cold War Era, F/M, Red Room, Soviet Era, young assassins in love
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-05-22
Updated: 2017-12-16
Packaged: 2018-03-31 16:18:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 13,317
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3984685
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spiderine/pseuds/spiderine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the depths of the Cold War, the Winter Soldier and the Black Widow trained together in the Red Room.  This is that story.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I started work on this before "Agent Carter" aired and gave us information about the MCU version of the Black Widow Project. So this is not compliant with that canon. But hey, this is comics; cherry-picking canon is practically compulsory. 
> 
> Many thanks to cjk1701, who answered a gazillion questions with grace and patience, taught me much about Soviet-era life, and introduced me to the dazzlingly profane intricacies of Mat.
> 
> Beta credit to the Askies, as always. Jesus.
> 
> NOTE: THIS IS A WORK IN PROGRESS. It is a truth universally acknowledged that Spider writes at a glacial pace, but the wait is always worth it. If that's not your thing, that's cool too. Come back when it's done, okay?

They extracted him from Budapest in the back of a troop transport plane.  Two armed guards kept a wary eye on him as if they were watching an uncaged tiger.  The officer sitting next to him may as well have been holding his leash.

When they put him in the plane the officer handed him a sandwich that he shoved into his mouth with both hands, barely chewing, ravenous.  After that, all he did was sit there, his blank, exhausted gaze somewhere in the middle distance.

Back at base, they sat him at a table and he gave his debriefing: four kills in six days.  They told him he had helped crush some kind of rebellion and praised him as a loyal son of Mother Russia.  Then they asked him if he had anything else to add.

The world's most feared assassin looked up from the table to the man sitting across from him and quietly said, "I need to take a shit."

 

* * *

 

They stripped him down outside the door and told him to shower and shave; his new mission required it. Inside, he heard the door lock behind him.  He used the white toilet in the white tiled room that had an electric razor and a toothbrush on the edge of the white sink.  There were no windows and no mirrors.  

He turned the shower on as far as it would go and just stood under the hot hard spray stinging against his back.  It was pure bliss, alien to his familiar world of metal and fire and pain, and for the first time in his life he almost thought he might say no when they came to get him.  No, he would say, he wasn't leaving where it was so warm and good.  

He leaned his head forward to let the water pour over his neck.  Looking down, he saw mud and blood sluice off his body and swirl down the drain in the floor, turning the white tile dirt grey. He saw his left arm gleam and felt it loosen up as tiny bits of grit were rinsed from the joints.  He saw scars, dozens of scars, puckered bullet holes and rough gashes hastily sewn. Scars without memories to go with them, scars that had covered him for as long as he could remember.

No, he wouldn't say no to them.  How could he?  He didn't know what else he was for.

 

* * *

 

It was amazing what a shit, shower and shave could do for a guy just in from the field.  Really cleared the cobwebs.  The Winter Soldier ran his hand through his newly shorn hair and smirked to himself, remembering how the scientist with the clippers had approached the chair as if he were some kind of landmine.

One of the clot of white coats and dark uniforms escorting him down the corridor saw the smirk.  "How long has he been in  the field?" he whispered to his colleague as they walked, as if the Soldier couldn't hear them.

"Three weeks total. Are you sure this is a good idea?"

"Not my call."

They took him through to a gallery overlooking a large gymnasium.  The other men on the gallery were covered in epaulets, chevrons and stars.  One of them turned to him, smiled and held out his hand.  "Comrade Winter Soldier. It is good to see you well."

The Soldier's eyes flicked among the marks of rank before he slowly clasped wrists. "Comrade Major General."

The General's aide whispered in the General's ear, "Sir, remember he doesn't know you."  

It was getting annoying, thought the Soldier, how everyone treated him as if he wasn't there.  Except the General, he reminded himself.  The General spoke to him and wasn't afraid to touch him. He took a tentative step closer.  

The General's smile widened and he beckoned him to look over the rail of the gallery.   Below, ten young women were paired off, free-sparring with wicked grace and dazzling power. "What do you think?"

The Soldier clutched the railing and the metal creaked under the pressure of his grip.  

"Attention!"

He snapped to. The General gave him an approving nod and commanded, "At ease, Soldier."  That was good, that let him gain control of his breath and his pounding heart.  "Excellent," the General murmured.  The Soldier didn't think he was talking to him, but it still made him feel... something, anyway.  

Once again, the General indicated the floor below.  This time when he spoke his voice was slow and gentle.  "Tell me, comrade," he said, "which are best."

"Yes, Comrade Major General."  He looked over the balcony.  The women had changed partners, and a couple were beginning to show fatigue.  The Soldier used his few moments of consideration to clear his mind again; it was like pawing his way through thick fog.  Then he pointed.  "Those three are useless," he said.  "They're puffing like grannies.  This one," he pointed at a small, dark-haired woman who moved like a snapping whip, "and that one, the redhead in the far corner.  Those are your best.  The rest," he shrugged, "cannon fodder."  He flicked his eyes over to the General and quickly added, "Sir."

The General nodded to an aide, who leaned over the rail and called out, "Petrova, Romanova.  The rest of you, dismissed."   The two women indicated moved to the center of the room, squared off, and began again.

It was evident that each of the two had been encouraged to develop a style that played to her strengths.  The little one's strikes were tight and sharp, designed to keep her low and inside her opponent's preferred reach.  Like a venomous hummingbird, the Soldier thought.  The sentimentality made one side of his mouth tic upwards in the ghost of a smile.  

It did not go unnoticed by the General and his staff.

The other one, the redhead, was all over the place.  Brilliant and unpredictable, her movements seemed wild, yet landed with pinpoint precision.  She whipped around, making her opponent expect a kick, but instead her leg swung and caught the back of the little brunette's stable leg, collapsing her stance.  The redhead rolled back, falling on her shoulders and used the leverage in her legs to snap her opponent up over her head and crash to the mat behind.  Her preferred style, it appeared, was no style at all.

It was absolutely beautiful.  

"So, Comrade Winter Soldier," said the General. His voice remained as gentle as it was before, but it contained a sterner note. "What do you make of them?"

He froze again, but after a moment was able to pull himself together.  "What --" his voice caught. He cleared his throat and began more steadily.  "What do you want me to make of them, Comrade Major General?"

"Your student, of course."  The General smiled at him as if he'd handed him a gift.  "Pick one."

The Soldier felt another stab of fear.  He glanced around, looking for guidance, but got none.  "They're well-matched, sir," he tried. "Either is a credit to the People."

The General frowned.  "Pick one."

Thinking as quickly as he could, the Soldier called over the railing, "Break her neck."

The little one looked up at the sound of his voice.  The redhead  heel-struck her where her jaw met her throat.  There was a loud crack and the brunette crumpled to the floor.

The Soldier turned to the General and said, "I'll take that one."

 

* * *

 

The next morning, as he was on his second bowl of kasha and third mug of good strong tea, she approached his table.  "May I sit here, comrade?" He shrugged without looking up. It wasn't as though anyone else was sitting there.  "I'm Natalia --"  she started, sitting opposite him.

"I know who you are.  You're my mission," he said, wiping his mouth with the back of his right hand and sitting back. He gestured to the dossier on the table next to him.  "I'm to train you."

"Funny," she said with a quirk of her lips, "I was told I'm to train _with_ you."  

"I don't care what you were told.  Comrade."  She had the sense to look abashed and the even better sense to look as if she were trying to hide it.  "You're too flashy, you're too fond of yourself, you telegraph every move you make.  And the way you locked your elbow on that strike you're lucky you haven't shattered your whole arm."

Automatically, she glanced to his arm, cold metal under the harsh lighting of the mess hall, and back to his face.  He just looked calmly into her eyes -- now grey, now blue -- until she dropped her gaze.  She'd have to learn to control that blush, he noted.  But he did like the way it showed off the freckles on her nose.

He got up.  "Studio 38.  Fifteen minutes."   It would have been a better exit, he thought, if he hadn't had to bus his own tray.

He had time for a quick warm-up before she got there.  A couple hundred sit-ups, a couple hundred one-armed pushups, a good hot breakfast on top of the best night's sleep in his life -- he couldn't remember ever feeling this good.  He stretched and rolled his shoulders, feeling light and free, and his eye fell on his leather armor jacket hanging from a peg on the wall.  Now that his assignment wasn't in the field, maybe they might give him a uniform that was less ...?  Less something, anyway. He shrugged. They gave him what he needed, and if they didn't give it, he didn't need it.

"Winter Soldier?"

He spun around, grabbed one of the free weight plates piled next to him and flung it in the direction of the voice.  By the time his mind caught up with his body, the girl had thrown herself to the floor with her arms protecting her head and the weight plate had smashed into the wall behind her, throwing off chunks of the concrete block.

He cursed himself.  She had gotten the drop on him.  She hadn't even been trying, but he'd been so lost in that fog in his head that he wasn't paying basic attention to his mission.  Gotta keep sharp, he thought. Sharp and clear.  As the girl stood up -- Romanova, he reminded himself -- he said, "Not bad reflexes. Let's see what you can really do."

She dusted off her PT-issue track suit, flipped her red ponytail back over her shoulder and eyed him warily.  His returning grin was more a baring of teeth.  Then she rushed him, low and quick as a cobra. He smoothly stepped aside, grabbed her ponytail, yanked her to the ground with it and stepped on her neck.  She jammed her arm between and around the back of his legs and twisted her whole body with a rough grunt in an attempt to use the leverage to topple him.  He toppled all right, into a forward roll and up on his feet without even letting go of her hair, jerking her spine so sharply that she cried out as she slammed onto her face. He spun to plant one boot on the base of her spine, rolled her ponytail around his hand for a better grip, wrenched her right arm up behind her back, and quietly said, "Snap."

The intensity of her glare would have been terrifying if she wasn't still completely helpless on the ground. Under the circumstances, though, it was kind of amusing, and the Soldier allowed himself a small smile as he looked down at her.  "There's that elbow.  Shall I break it?  Shall I snap your neck?"  He released her, taking a couple of quick steps back as she scrambled to her feet.  She glowered, clearly gearing up for another run, when he held up his hand to stop her.  "Your infighting is a disgrace," he said, "and whoever let you wear your hair like that should be shot."

She glowered but said nothing.  He grabbed a towel off a shelf.  "I know your cover, little ballerina," he said, wiping the sweat from his chest.  "Stop trying to be beautiful. You're not a swan here."  He threw the sweaty towel back for her to catch.  "Now get that fucking hair up into a darling little Bolshoi bun, and we'll go over that sweep again."

 

* * *

 

After she left he stood for a while, waiting.  When he figured out what he was waiting for, he put his armor jacket back on and went back to the room with the chair, and waited there in a corner.  People in the room were busy with whatever people did with clipboards and huge reel-to-reel computers and monitors with green blips on them.

Then one turned around, saw him, jolted back and blurted, _"Yob tvoyu mat!"_  ** Every head in the room snapped round to see the Soldier in the corner.

 He said, "I need a mission."

 Nobody moved. Nobody said anything.  So he waited some more.  Finally one man called someone on a telephone and had a short conversation.  When he hung up, he turned to the Soldier, took a deep breath and said, "Go to the firearms range.  Follow any order from the rangemaster.  Practice there until told otherwise."  

 He nodded, and as he turned to leave he heard the man who had spoken to him sigh with relief.

 

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

The Soldier looked at the goggles and ear protection dubiously.  The rangemaster took a deep breath and said, "You will not be allowed on the range until you comply."   So he did, even though he didn't like having his peripheral vision and hearing compromised.  

Steadily, he worked his way through every firearm on the range.  It was frustrating; the target wasn't far enough away, they limited his ammunition, and with muffled sight and hearing he kept having to check his six.  Once when he turned around there were half a dozen people watching him.  He looked at them until they went away.

Empty a clip, pull in the target, reload. Repeat. Change weapons. Repeat.  He felt most comfortable with an old Mosin-Nagant carbine than with some of the newer weapons, even if they were more efficient.  The Mosin felt familiar, the way it settled in his arms, growing warm against his cheek. If only he could get a damn target far enough away, he could make this baby sing.   _(...make this baby sing...)_

He looked up from the target and blinked.  Where the hell did _that_ come from?

Before he could concentrate and get his head back in the game ( _..back in the game...)_ the "cease firing" light blinked. He returned the eye and ear protection and obeyed the rangemaster's order to follow two armed guards. They took him up four flights of stairs next to a non-working elevator, and out into a large office space. It was full of noise. Women in uniform were sitting outside office doors typing.  Men in uniform were in offices working, standing outside offices talking.  As the guards led him past them the noise faded in waves as one after the other saw him and fell silent.  In his wake he heard the sudden renewed sound of people dutifully and deliberately going back to work.  

 

* * *

 

The General's office had a window and a photo of Khrushchev .  That was all that could be said for it; the old file cabinets and scratched chairs were overflowing with piles of folders and paper, and there was a water stain on the ceiling..

At the General's nod, the two armed guards left them alone in the office.   The Soldier waited at attention until the General looked up from a desk that had seen hard wear and said, "Stand at ease."  So he did. "So, Comrade Winter Soldier. Why do we find you wandering the halls?"

"I need a mission."

"You have a mission.  Romanova."

"She isn't here, Comrade Major General."

"Ah, I see.  When is your next session with her?"

"1830, Comrade Major General."

The General tapped his cigarette into the ashtray once or twice.  "Go back to the laboratory until you're fetched.  They'll get you something to eat. Dismissed."

The two armed guards took him to the room with the chair.  He had a bowl of borscht and some bread and tea while the scientists set up, then spent the rest of the afternoon in the chair.  It didn't hurt that much.  He'd had worse.

Romanova was already in the studio, working on a heavy bag.  This time she had her hair up in a tight twist and wore her Black Widow uniform. He had to take a moment at the doorway to shake off the fog. His whole body still ached from the chair, and the blunt stabbing pain in his head made it hurt to think. So he grabbed two bo staffs from the frame on the wall, threw one at Romanova and stopped thinking.  

She caught it, of course, and the crack when their staffs met was like a gunshot.  There was no time for thought or pain or anything but attack dodge strike spin roll, the whisper of a staff just brushing his face as he barely avoided the blow, the dull thud of wood striking flesh, the sharp crack ( _...like a curveball off Babe Herman's bat...)_

The blow hit him right below his ribs. It doubled him over and the second blow on the back of the neck floored him.  Natasha leapt to pin his shoulders to the mat with her knees and crush his throat with the bo.  The she realized he wasn't fighting back. She rolled off and scurried out of range, and then realized he wasn't getting up.

"Comrade?" she called.  No answer.  "Winter Soldier, are you all right?  I'm not stupid enough to come closer, you know."

He should get up and charge her.  He should call her closer and use her trust against her, but he was exhausted and in pain and maybe once, maybe just this once ...

He rolled over to his side to face her and said in a low croak, "I won't hurt you."  When he saw her eyes widen, he knew he had said the wrong thing,and he knew he had to make sure she couldn't tell anyone.  

As he approached her she backed away, agile as always, ready to strike forward, but he could see just that little bit of fear flicker through those gray-blue eyes. He smiled and stepped just enough closer to make her back away again.

"Winter Soldier, stand down!" she yelled.  That was adorable, that she thought she could give him orders.  

She stopped and faced him, and he was surprised that she looked so sad. "You don't have to be a monster here," she said quietly.

A searing surge of blood-hot rage practically blinded him, and he floored her with one backhand.

 

* * *

 

"Mission report."  The General leaned back in his chair and calmly dragged on his cigarette.  

Natasha stood before him at attention. Dark purple bruising bloomed over her neck and the right side of her jaw.  She swallowed carefully and tried not to gag at the pain.  "He performed as expected from the pre-mission briefing, Comrade Major General."

He snorted and tapped at his own jaw.  "Was this predicted by the pre-mission briefing?"

"I was informed of possible risks, Comrade Major General."

The General considered her, smoking, flicking his cigarette on the floor. "Stand easy, agent."  When she relaxed he continued.  "How long have we known each other, Natasha?  Stop bullshitting me."

"He's brutal, sir."  The General waved that away as a given. "He has ... absences. Sometimes he just comes to a stop and I can tell he's gone somewhere else.  It only lasts a moment or so.  When he comes back he immediately lashes out."   She indicated her bruises.  

"I need him able to function in public in two weeks."

Natasha snapped to attention.  "Yes, Comrade Major General."  

He blew cigarette smoke out his nose like a cartoon bull.  "You're bullshitting again, Natasha.  Stand easy and spit it out."

"Please define 'function', sir."

"Basic bodyguard in five days.  Able to pass in two weeks."

She thought carefully.  "I'll need far more access to him, and I'll probably have to take him out more than once."

He nodded and turned to one of the many files on his desk.  "Write up a report and deliver it before the end of the day.  Dismissed."

She paused.  

"You are trying my patience, Natalia Alianova."

"Sir," she said, "he could have killed me." She gestured at her bruises. "Perfectly controlled."

The General looked back up at her, and she met his gaze without flinching.  "Tell me," he said, "what did you say to provoke him?"

"I told him he didn't have to be a monster, sir."

"He didn't like being called a monster?"

"He didn't like being told he wasn't, sir."

 


	3. Chapter 3

When they buckled him up the next morning and released him for the day, they didn't put any guards on him, which was interesting.  He stopped at the mess, filled his pockets with bread and cheese and hard-boiled eggs, grabbed a mug of tea and went straight to the small gym he'd used yesterday, chugging and chewing as he walked.  The first thing he did when he got there was strip off his jacket.

He was still stretching when Natasha came in, back in her training suit but with her hair still twisted up.  He had been facing the door this time.  Her bruises were blossoming.  She kicked off her shoes and started stretching out, facing him.

"Missed you at breakfast this morning."

"Not hungry."

"Breakfast is the most important meal of the day," she sing-songed and rolled from a backbend to a handstand, a walk-over and back to her feet.  She saw his expression and sighed.  "My granny used to say that."

"You don't have a granny."

"Someone else's granny, then," she smirked.  "Come on, hamstring."  She kicked up her leg to prop her heel on his shoulder; instinctively he grabbed her ankle before it landed, but stopped himself before breaking it.  Instead, he just kind of stood there holding it next to his face and looking at it curiously.  Then he looked at Natasha.

"What...why.."  He grimaced. The words for what he wanted to say weren't in his head, and he didn't like the way it felt.  

Standing comfortably on one leg with her left foot higher than her head, Natasha rolled her eyes.  "Stretch."  She bent forward, grabbed the foot he was holding, and stretched herself until her head met her leg.  

"Why are you like this?"  he blurted.    She looked up at him.  "Like what?"  He looked back at the foot in his hand, next to his shoulder, and wondered why he hadn't put it down.  "You... you... "  

"What, not a machine?" Natasha straightened and shook her foot until he let go.  She snapped to attention and raised her chin.  "I am a Black Widow.  I am a proud weapon of the Soviet Union."  Then she shrugged.  "I also like strawberry ice cream and one of my flatmates hates me."

He spent the rest of their session pondering that.  Fortunately his body was capable of working without him.  

She had nice toes. They were all broken.

***

They didn't put him in the chair.

They didn't put him in the chair.  

He wondered what he'd done wrong.  

***

This time at the range they had him demonstrate for the recruits.  They told him to go from one to the next, correcting position, grip, breath, eye.  After getting past the surprising stab of terror in his gut, it got easier, like he'd done this before.  His students stopped shuddering at his touch  He was able to find the words and speak them. There was one kid on the line, one young blond kid, he was so damn eager --

The Soldier knelt down next to where the kid lay prone and tense and peering down the sight.  He tugged the kid's shoulder into proper position and smiled.  "Hey, take it easy, hero --"   

_(...easy, hero...)_

There was a sickening crunch; the kid was screaming  and the whole range was in chaos.  The Soldier saw the rangemaster run toward him, grabbed the nearest weapon and --

The last thing he felt was the needle plunging into his neck.

He woke up in the chair.

***

"Mission report."

The Soldier hung his head.

"Winter Soldier, we have one dead rangemaster, one crippled recruit, and four fine agents in hospital."  The General frowned, stabbed out his cigarette and leaned forward, broad hands splayed flat on the desk.  "Mission report."

"I don't know, sir," the Soldier whispered.

"I have trusted you.  I have placed faith in you. Why do you do this to me?"

"I'm sorry, sir."  His face felt like it was crumpling and he didn't like the stinging in his eyes.

"What did I do to deserve this behavior of yours, Winter Soldier?"

"No!"  The Soldier looked at him, pleading. "You're good to me.  You take care of me."  He gulped, trying to get his breathing under control.

"This behavior cannot continue."

"No sir, it won't sir, please."   This was awful, this was worse than the chair.

The General looked him up and down, and sighed.  "I need to be able to trust you."  He sounded sad. "How can I trust you with my life if I have to worry about taking care of you?  I worry so much about you, you know."

It broke him better than a slap in the face. He hurt all over, tears and snot poured down his face.  He hunched his shoulders and wanted to roll up into a little ball on the floor. All his words were gone.  

The General came from behind his desk to place one hand under the Soldier's chin and tip it up so he could see the Soldier's eyes.  They begged for his forgiveness.  "We can make this right, comrade," he said softly, with infinite compassion.  "You can show me I can trust you again."   

The Soldier nodded frantically and tried to snort back the mucus in his nose so he could breathe.  His eyes hurt so much he could barely see.  The General took pity on him and gave him a clean handkerchief from his own pocket.  The General took good care of him.

"Good," said the General, and went back to his desk, all business.  "You can guard me for the rest of the day."  

The Soldier snapped to attention.  "Yes, sir.  You can count on me, sir."  

"I know."  The General returned his concentration to his paperwork and cigarettes.  "Stand behind my desk facing the door until I release you."

So he did.

****

Natasha showed up in the lab the next morning just as they finished buckling him up for the day.  She was dressed like a civilian in a dark blue dress printed with leaves, and wore heels and a little green hat. She looked around and said, "They had to raise my clearance just to come down here."

"My quarters are here."  

"Really?  Huh."  She took his hand. "Show me."    

He looked at their joined hands until she let go, then led her to his quarters at one end of the lab.  It was small but clean and well-lit, with a sturdy metal bunk, warm blankets, and a toilet and sink in the corner.  There was a scratched glass window in the gray metal door and another up high on the outward facing wall.  

"It's a cell," she said.  

He wrinkled his brow. "It's where I sleep."

"It locks from the outside, the bunk is bolted to the floor and the windows are barred."  

"It's where I sleep," he repeated, and paused.  "Where do you sleep?"

"I live off base," she said.  "We all do, all of us in the Widow program.  We need to be able to come and go for our cover."  She grinned and recited in English, " ' _In an old house in Paris that was covered with vines, lived 12 little girls in two straight lines._ '  Only there are 28 of us and we kill people."   She paused. "You have no idea what I'm talking about."

All he could do in response was shake his head.  It was like she was speaking another language, and he didn't mean the English.  He spoke English and his accent was better than hers.

_(... just another guy from...)_

"Hey, hey, Soldierboy!"  

He shook his head to clear the fog.  "What?"

"You went away there for a moment."  She peered at him; he scowled at her; she shrugged. "Whatever.  Do you want to see where I live?"

He blinked. "I'm can't leave base."

She stared at him for a second. Then, smiling, "I guess it's time to see what this new clearance of mine can get us.  Grab some civvies and let's go."  She stopped.  "Wait, where do you keep your clothes?"

"These are my clothes."  The look she gave him made him angry.  "These are my clothes!"

"No PT, no dress uniform, no civvies?"  

One of the scientists heard their raised voices and came over.  "Problem, Agent?"  She shook her head and waved him away, but the scientist gave her a dubious look.  "It's not a good idea to antagonize the asset, Agent."  He turned to the Soldier and frowned.  

Natasha looked furious.  "Where are his clothes?"

The scientist looked down his nose at her and said, "The armor is designed for endurance.  We check it every night after he's stripped down."  

"Stripped down?  What is he, a car?"  She turned on the Soldier; he flinched.  "They strip you naked and lock you in a cell at night?"

"I... the blankets are warm?"  This was just getting more and more confusing.

Natasha rounded on the scientist and gave him a glare that made him blanch.  She pulled an ID wallet from her purse and opened it in his face. "I want a full kit for him.  Dress, undress, PT, and a civilian suit.  No, wait," she continued.  "I'll get him that myself. I don't want to see what garbage you come up with."   She grabbed the Soldier's hand and strode toward the door.  "Come on, Soldierboy, we're going out."

 


	4. Chapter 4

 

Red Square in January, gleaming under sunshine and snow.  The air was bright and sharp as a blade in the Soldier's lungs.  Natasha walked beside him in a fox fur coat, occasionally glancing at him from under her hat with a fox-like grin.  

He was bundled up in a corporal's standard issue double-breasted duffle coat and ushanka hat over his own uniform.  "We don't really have time today to get you new clothes," Natasha said, nodding at the monolithic GUM store across the Square as they walked past, "and I don't want to pull rank. The poor sods waiting to get in are like sharks on chum to queue-jumpers."  

They turned onto smaller streets and eventually she brought him to a large building in the shadow of the Bolshoi.  It had obviously been built before the revolution and had survived the war to become a crumbling, elegant old pile of flats.  It was covered in vines.

They climbed stairs with a dark wood handrail polished by a hundred years of hands.  As they went higher the lights became naked bulbs and the wallpaper was water-stained and peeling.  From behind doors that had multiple locks but were so thin they wouldn't withstand a stout kick, wafted radios and children's voices and a distinct smell of cabbage and boiled meat.  Something about the scent made the Soldier reel, and he had to lean back against the wall for a moment, close his eyes and catch his breath.  There was... he felt like there was another building in his head that smelled like this, and garlic, and --

"Soldier?"  

He opened his eyes to see Natasha peering down at him over the stairwell railing a floor above him, wearing a concerned expression.  He quickly schooled his face into a calm frown and jogged up to meet her.  "Why do these people bother having locks at all?" he growled.

She looked at him like she was about to say something, but then turned and led him to the top floor.  It had only one door, which despite its age looked sturdier than the others he'd seen.  Natasha put keys in two of the locks, turned them both at the same time, and pushed one of eight door buzzer buttons.

The door closed behind them with a heavy clack that belied its appearance. They were in a narrow, dark hallway lined with three bicycles, at least a dozen coats and bags and sidearm holsters on hooks along the walls, a pile of boots and shoes behind the door. Strung over it all was a laundry line hung with pink tights and other unidentifiable things that had to be dancing  clothes or lingerie or something.  

Natasha wound her way through the chaos with graceful familiarity while the Soldier ducked  to avoid flapping underwear.  The end of the hall opened into a large room with exposed pipes, peeling paint on the walls, and yet more washing strung from the ceiling.  He counted three stoves, old and rusty, one huge stained sink at the back with a water heater fixed to the wall, and four mismatched tables shoved together to create one at the center of the room. All kinds of things were pinned on the walls -- he identified ballet posters, pistol targets with the centers shot out in neat circles, schedule calendars and a scrawled note saying that Masha owed someone eight rubles.

A young woman sat at the table in a bathrobe and a towel wrapped around her hair, shaving her legs from a basin of soapy water on the table by her side.  She looked the Soldier up and down, and smirked to Natasha, "Matron is going to kill you."

"Only if she finds out."  Natasha threw her coat over one of the other chairs and went to put the kettle on.  "Anyway, aren't you supposed to be at the theater?"

The woman raised her eyebrows and cocked her head in the Soldier's direction.  Natasha smiled.  "Don't worry, that's just my cousin Ilya.  Say hello to Katya, Ilya."

The Soldier mumbled, "Hello." Katya rolled her eyes.  "You don't have a cousin," she said; she'd obviously said it many times before.

"Someone else's cousin then,"  Natasha said cheerfully as she pulled mugs and a teapot from the cupboard.  "Besides, it's okay, he's in the Project."

"Are you out of your mind? That's even worse!"  Katya twisted around in her seat to face Natasha, knocking the basin of water on the floor. "They'll kill you for fraternizing!"

Natasha slammed the kettle down and stalked over to the table, emanating cold threat.  "One: missions are need-to-know, Comrade Black Widow, and you are not my handler. If I bring a fellow agent anywhere I have a damn good reason.  Which, two: we are not fraternizing."  She loomed over Katya until Katya got up and they stood face to face, staring each other down like a pair of wolves.  "And three," Natasha growled. "If I hear any rumors that we are, I'll know you spread them, and I will flay. Your. Feet."  

There was a beat of tension, then Katya pulled the towel from her head, threw it onto the soapy puddle on the floor and left the room with a huff and a flounce of long blonde hair.  They heard a door slam.

Natasha calmly arranged the tea things on a tray and handed it to the Soldier.  "Told you she hates me."  She picked up her coat and led the way back down the hall, then stopped to unlock one of the row of doors.

"Why does she hate you?" the Soldier asked.

"I killed her best friend," she answered, sounding entirely unconcerned.

"Why?"

She turned back in the door frame and cocked her head. "You told me to."

Behind the door was all the chaos of the hallway stuffed into one room. Facing him was a large old window. In front of that was a battered couch, and it was flanked by a set of bunk beds on each side.  Every other available space was taken by an overflowing bookshelf or a wardrobe or a set of drawers or a pile of boxes, with make-up kits, clothes, mirrors, ammunition clips and hair things scattered on top.  

The bunks were made military-tight. On one of them were an open sewing kit, a sharp knife, a pile of ribbon and half a dozen pink satin ballet shoes that had been completely ripped apart.   A curly blonde wig hung from one bedpost, looking rather disturbing, and from another hung an AK-47. A real, actual tutu sat on one of the top bunks in all its frothy glory.  

When the Soldier bumped the door closed with his elbow he saw that the hooks holding scarves and jewelry were actually a set of throwing knives embedded in the wall.

Natasha took the tray from him and set it down on a pile of boxes.  She looked at him, still standing awkwardly in the doorway looking like a roll of carpet in that duffle coat and ushanka.  "What?"

"I like mine better," said the Soldier. "It's quieter."

A smile bloomed across her face.  "Good point. Come on, sit down."  She took his coat and hat and dropped them beside hers on one of the lower bunks.

They sat as she passed him a mug of tea and opened a pastry tin, releasing a scent of raspberry and cinnamon.  He grabbed a couple of the sticky little knots and stuffed them in his mouth, licking his fingers.  She looked at him strangely and he shrugged.  "Haven't eaten yet."

She made a little "o" with her mouth.  "I'm so sorry!"  She quickly got up and pulled a loaf of brown bread from a cupboard, then opened the window and took a wrapped cube of butter from where it had been keeping cold on the window ledge. Once they were on the table she pulled a six-inch Bowie knife from a drawer and used it to cut and butter the bread.

Sitting back down next to him, she handed him a slab of bread and butter.  He folded it in half and as he stuffed it in his mouth she picked up her mug.  "Don't worry about Katya," she said.  "Sveta's replacement arrived this morning so she's a bit upset, but she'll get over it."

The Soldier nodded, mostly concentrating on washing his bread down with tea.  

"Sveta was my friend too.  We grew up together,"  Natasha continued, smoothly pouring him another cup.  She looked down at her own mug for a second, smiled, and looked back up at the Soldier.  "Right now on a secret base live a hundred little girls.  Their only home is a military barracks and their only family is Mother Russia.  All they do is train.  Train to spy, train to kill," she said with a rueful little chuckle, "and train to dance."  The Soldier started to ask, but Natasha waved him off. "Ruthless discipline, immediate obedience, completely interchangeable.  Rows of little girls looking exactly the same whether they're practicing at the shooting range or at the barre. And the Bolshoi troupe is welcome almost anywhere. It's the perfect cover."

Her gaze was somewhere off in the middle distance now. "It's all one, really.  You learn perfect control of your body. You become strong enough to kill with a single kick.  And most important, you learn to ignore constant pain."   

The Soldier listened in silent fascination, and startled slightly when she turned to him and snapped, "You think you're so hot with your guns and your fancy arm? Try rehearsing for six straight with not a hair out of place and not a hint that your feet are full of blisters and your ankles are aching with strain.  I don't know about you, but I can jump around on the tips of my toes all night with a serene smile and perfect makeup, and make a thousand people believe I'm made of snowflakes and fairy farts."  She huffed and settled back on the couch, arms crossed. "And that's just the _cover_."

The Soldier shook his head.  "I...I never said..."  He didn't give a damn about fairy farts. What did any of this have to do with that girl?  

Natasha sighed and offered him the tin of pastries, and he grabbed another and popped it in his mouth.  "Sorry," she said.  "I didn't mean to snap.  What I'm trying to say is," she paused for a beat, "We grow up hearing about the Red Room and hoping one day we're chosen.  It's the ultimate honor.  Other girls end up in the military or the KGB, and that's fine, but there are only 28 Black Widows, and the only time a we can advance is when one of us dies.  When that happens..." she pursed her lips and took a big breath,  "they take the top two candidates at each level and make us fight to the death."

"That's a waste of good assets."

Natasha shook her head.  "There are always more little girls."  She shrugged. "The test isn't whether we can kill someone, but whether we would kill someone who's been a sister to us. Again and again and again. There is not a single Black Widow who does not have the blood of many sisters on her hands. But then we get here, and we never have to do it again. Or so I thought."   She leaned forward, glaring at him with fire in her eyes.  "Never make me do that again."

The Soldier hid the hint of a smile behind a sip of tea.  "Or you'll flay my feet?" At her astonished face, he snorted.  "You'll do as you're told, just like the rest of us, Comrade Black Widow, or you'll pay the price. Interchangeable my ass. You're the least interchangeable person I've ever seen."

"That's not saying much."

Now it was his turn to get in her face and glare.  "You want to stay alive?  Keep your mouth shut and follow orders. If they notice you, you may as well have a target on your back. For example, we need to get back to base before we're missed."  He stood up, grabbed the last pastries, ate all three and happily licked cinnamon and jam from his fingers.

*****

The General raised an eyebrow.  "Do you have a question, Winter Soldier?"

The Soldier looked at the dossier in his hand.  He thought, student radicals, really?  A few stupid students in Prague running around with Molotovs?  This was a simple job, half a day's work at most that could easily be done by any decent sniper.  

He said, "No, Comrade Major General."

He should have known better.  Half a day's work turned into three as the radicals went to ground and gained a romantic following of more idiots who thought the "movement" would end in anything other than cowering in an abandoned factory while he and his support squad burned them out like rats.  It was nothing more than a waste of good young men who once could have made the Motherland proud.  

This strange sense of drudgery remained with him all the way back to base and into his debriefing.  He didn't remember much. He mumbled. His mind was wrapped in smog. Then he felt a sharp smack across his face.  "Winter Soldier, attention!"  

He immediately obeyed, but the General yanked him down by the hair to his own eye level. Shocked and wild-eyed, the Soldier stared at him and trembled under his hand.  The General never hurt him.  The General was good to him. The General took care of him.   

**  
**The General took one hard look at the Soldier, sighed, and let him go.  Then he opened his office door and gestured for the two guards to enter.  "Wipe him," he said, already settling himself behind his desk as the two guards grabbed the Soldier by the arms and half led, half dragged him away.


	5. Chapter 5

He'd never been to the Bolshoi.

Cleaned and buffed within an inch of his life, his arm gleaming chrome and his uniform leather renewed, the Soldier stood guard behind the General. Outwardly impassive, he smiled to himself. It was amazing what a shower and shave could do for a guy just in from the field. Really cleared the cobwebs. 

The lobby was cream and gold paint with scuffed marble floors. The Soldier saw where it had been stripped of gilt and crystal during the Revolution and hastily repaired after ... _((after...?))_ The thought slipped away.

People of all types swarmed up and down the stairs, dressed in everything from good cloth coats and caps, to uniforms, and occasionally to the kind of furs, silks and jewelry he thought the Soviet state had long abolished.

An image of a fox-fur coat and a fox-like grin floated across the Soldier's mind. He shook it away.

The General shook hands and chatted, smiling, with a succession of people, most of them civilians. The Soldier wasn't paying much attention; later, if asked, he'd be able to match any face to a photograph, but right now he was scanning entrances and exits, how people moved and where.

His gaze caught on a woman whose red hair was piled up on her head with bits fluttering down the nape of her neck, trails of red almost shining against her pale skin. The Soldier wondered how she kept the rest of her hair up. Then he wondered how she kept her dress up.

"My god, is that really him?" a man talking to the General asked in a hushed voice with a heavy German accent. 

"Yes."

The woman with the red hair smiled at her companion as they strolled through the crowd. The reflected light of the chandelier struck her dress and turned the black into the deepest midnight blue. A small red jewel hung from a thin chain around her neck, coming to rest like a single drop of blood above the swell of her breasts. 

"Does he know --" 

"No."

"My god," the German repeated. The thin blonde woman who clutched his arm looked from him to the Soldier and back with a quizzical expression.

The red-haired woman laughed at something her companion said, and the Soldier's mind ground to a halt. He knew that laugh. He knew he'd heard it before, often. He knew it.

"You know there are some who would pay millions --"

Natalia.

"My friend," the General interrupted the German with an appeasing smile, "let us meet tomorrow over tea and I will tell you a wonderful story, but I fear your lovely companion is growing impatient."

Natalia. Freckled nose and changeable eyes and broken toes. 

Out of the corner of his eye, the Soldier saw a thin hand reach out to stroke his metal arm. Without thinking, he grabbed it and bent back the wrist, stopping just short of breaking it. The blonde woman shrieked, the General barked out, "Attention!", and the Soldier dropped the woman's wrist and snapped to.

The German wrapped his arm around the blonde woman's shoulders as she stood shaking, shocked and appalled. 

"Madame, I do apologize most sincerely," the General told her in a voice that mixed real sympathy with a touch of irritation. "But you must understand that the asset is not a toy." He turned to the Soldier. "Soldier, identify yourself."

"I am the Winter Soldier, a proud weapon of the Soviet Union!" The vision of a fox-like grin floated into his mind again, and he added to himself, _I like cinnamon._

************

The Soldier decided he did not like opera. He disliked these sight lines even more. He couldn't stand at the front of the box, blocking the General's view of the stage while calling far too much attention to him. He couldn't stand at the back of the box because he couldn't get a clear line of sight on to the rest of the auditorium, but it did let him block the entrance to the General's box. The entrance to the box itself was closed by a curtain, which ruined his view out into the corridor without providing any defense whatsoever. He couldn't step into the corridor because then he'd lose sight of everything else. He certainly couldn't sit next to the General. _((Wouldn't that be a kick))_ he snickered to himself behind his impassive face.

The Soldier blinked. _((head in the game, pal...))_

He gritted his teeth. It must be the music -- the bombastic orchestra, the wailing singers, going on and on. He couldn't hear anything he should be listening for, he couldn't see anything he should be looking for, he couldn't patrol because he couldn't leave the General. The closest he could come to a patrol was to peer out the curtain at the back of the box, scan both directions, step back in, scan any sight lines he could find from the corners, and repeat. Less of a patrol than a little dance: step out, step back, step to one side, step to the other side. 

It was the change of a spotlight that let him see the glint of the scope from one of the other boxes. He leapt forward faster than thought to push the General to the floor as the *crack* of the rifle was covered by a burst of applause, raised his arm to deflect the bullet from hitting anyone else, and shielded the General with his own body as the other officers rushed to the General's aid.

"Go," hissed the General to the Soldier.

Out the box and around the upper circle lobby to where the shot had come from. The shooter was gone, of course, but a door in the corner was slightly ajar. It led to a dark, narrow hallway, a crawlspace more than anything, piled with mops, buckets, boxes and cleaning supplies that curved ahead toward the backstage area. The Soldier could barely make his way through, but the dull crashes and thuds ahead of him meant his quarry was having an equally tough time. The door at the other end of the hall was open too, and the Soldier burst through only to find himself at the edge of a small metal platform. A tight spiral stair led down, but the shooter ahead of him was running across a scaffold crosswalk high over the stage behind the curtain. The rattling of the Soldier's heavy boots on the scaffold were drowned out by the incessant booming and wailing below them as he chased. At the other end of the catwalk was another spiral stair; the shooter rushed down it taking two or three stairs at a time. The Soldier just jumped, scattering the people backstage in his wake as he landed. He grabbed a shield from one of the singers waiting in the wings and flung it to knock the shooter down.

It bounced off and clattered to the floor. The shooter barely stumbled as he ran past the wings and down another set of stairs that opened below the stage. 

The music was deafening above them as the Soldier rushed the shooter and tackled him to the floor. He raised his fist -- ready for one skull-crushing blow -- before he recognized the shooter was the man who had been talking to the General before the show, and he was laughing.

"Puppet!" The man spat blood in the Soldier's face. "Do you even know who you are? You're a joke!" 

Instead of punching, the Soldier grabbed the man by the throat. "Shut up!" he growled. But the man was still laughing even as he choked for air. 

"Do you think we were after your keeper? You're wasted here. You could be used to rule the world!" The man rolled under the Soldier, trying to shove him off, and pulled out a syringe. The Soldier knocked it away and with one yank snapped the wrist that had held it. The shooter screamed, then gasped, "We will have you! Cut off one head and two grow in its place!" He crunched down on something in his mouth and grinned maniacally, even as he started shaking and foaming at the mouth. "Hail HYDRA, Sergeant B--" He went into a seizure, arched his back in rigor, and died.

The Soldier grabbed the man's skull and smashed it into the floor like a coconut anyway. Just because he could. He got to his feet, stretched out his back and tried to wipe away the blood, brains and bone fragments splattered on his face, but then realized he was probably just making it worse. In any event, it was time to report back to the General. 

He walked back behind the stage, drawing horrified stares from the people in the wings. The Soldier looked at them until they lowered their eyes, at least knowing better than to say anything. He saw a dressing room and went to grab a towel to wipe himself off with, when he caught a look at his own face in a mirror. Blank-eyed and covered in gore, it was a face he didn't recognize; there was no one there to recognize. In the theater, the audience broke into thunderous applause. The Soldier dropped the bloody towel on the floor and started out the back way. 

As he neared the back door, he heard the unmistakable sounds of a fight -- dull thuds and crashes, heavy breathing and grunts. He broke into a run out the door and launched himself at the closest person he could get hands on. The Soldier had no idea who was fighting or why, but he figured he'd settle it first, sort it out afterwards. Only when he had his target in a headlock with one arm twisted behind his back did he give his full attention to the other participant approaching at his flank.

Natalia. The Black Widow. Barefoot, hair tumbled around her shoulders, her skirt ripped off at the hip, she hissed furiously, "What are you doing here? Choke him off!" Then she grabbed the target by his face and tried to shove her hand into his mouth. Which struck the Soldier as kind of strange, but he shrugged and squashed the man's neck between his metal forearm and elbow, like a nutcracker. Natalia removed her hand from the dead man's mouth, cursing under her breath. "Fuck, he swallowed it."

"Open him up," the Soldier suggested.

"I'm supposed to work dry!"

The soldier shrugged. "I'm not."

Natalia leaned back and finally got a good look at him. She laughed. "I can tell." 

"So stand back." She backed up quickly. He pulled a knife from his thigh sheath and gutted the man open like a zipper down his chest. Viscera and blood spilled over the ground as the Soldier rummaged through the guts until he found a metal capsule the size of a knuckle on his little finger. "Catch!" he said, and tossed the capsule to Natalia, who grabbed it from the air and took off into the shadows of an alley.

When the military guards and police finally caught up with him, they saw the asset-not-a-toy covered in the stinking gore of traitors. The Black Widow, and "it" (whatever "it" was), hadn't left a trace.

Mission complete.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Surprise! Happy holidays! At this point let's just consider this an AU, all right? *flaily hands* Also, remember this is a WIP (as if you haven't figured that out). There may be inconsistencies in formatting.
> 
> CONTENT NOTE FOR THIS CHAPTER: HERE COMES THE SEX! This chapter contains something that today might be considered sexual assault/rape, but wasn't considered as such during the time period of the story. Also, there is a brief discussion of pregnancy and female sterilization, with a passing reference to abortion. The author would like to gently suggest to the reader that if you're expecting healthy thinking and behavior from these two, you may not have been paying attention. Consider your limits, and remember the author loves you.

 

"Mission report complete."

The Major General looked from one to the other. The Black Widow, proud and attentive, ready to respond to any order at the snap of his fingers. The Winter Soldier, blank and inert, as if waiting for a switch to be flicked. Butter wouldn't melt in their mouths. "Let me get this straight, Black Widow," he said. "You had no orders, nor did you give any order, for the asset to become involved in your mission."

"No, sir," Natasha said. "I was aware of his presence as your bodyguard, but I made no attempt to engage him." She paused briefly, then added, "I was busy at the time, sir." 

"I am fully aware of that, agent," he said to her with a deadly glare, "as it was I who assigned your mission. There is no need for commentary."

"Yes, Comrade Major General." 

The Major General sighed and rubbed his upper lip where his substantial mustache had once been. He was still getting used to having shaved it off. Politics and fashion, forever intertwined even for stout, balding military officers. He turned to the Winter Soldier. "And you did not deliberately seek to interfere with that mission."

"You were my mission, Comrade Major General," the Soldier answered. 

The Major General sighed again and lit a cigarette. "Get out of here, both of you."

"Yes, Comrade Major General." "Yes, Comrade Major General."

As the door closed behind them, Natasha said to the guard outside the office, "I'll take charge of him from here. Winter Soldier, you're with me." She strolled off without looking back, confident that the Soldier would follow. Which of course he did.

He followed her down several flights of stairs, down past the ground floor, down to the basement. He followed her partly down a dimly lit hallway until she grabbed his arm and yanked him into some sort of boiler room, slamming the door behind them.

"You were amazing," Natasha hissed and threw her arms around his neck to give him a deep, forceful kiss. Before he had time to think more than  _ what? _ , she released him and unzipped her uniform in one swift movement from neck to hips. She snapped open her bra, stripped out of her sleeves and wriggled her underwear and lower uniform down to her ankles without removing her boots. "Come on," she said, hopping up to sit atop a low set of shelves and using a strap of his uniform jacket to yank him closer.

The Soldier was still stuck on the idea that she was naked so he wasn't doing much more than staring when she swung her legs up over his head, using the fact that her uniform was still bunched together at the ankles to make a kind of lasso around his back and pull him closer to her. Then she unbuckled his belt and pulled down his fly. At this point the Soldier was completely beyond words and all there was in his head was  _ wait what what wait oh god  _ as she took his cock in her hand and then he was inside her and  _ oh my god _ sweet and he really had no idea what was going on but  _ oh god yes  _ \--

_ Oh. Oh crap.  _ "Oops."

She giggled. He looked at her. Her sweet smile, her red hair loose and tumbled down around her face. He said, "Um." She wiggled her eyebrows and asked, "Been a while, soldier?"

Embarrassment immediately turned to rage. With a growl he pulled back and wrenched her legs back over his head, freeing himself with a hard jerk. "What the fuck is that supposed to mean?"

"Oh shit," she whispered, eyes wide as she realized what she'd just said. 

"What the fuck --?" he yelled. 

"Shhh!" she hissed desperately as she pulled her uniform back on. "Do you want everyone to hear us?"

He looked down at himself, belt open, fly down, cock dangling. He felt like an idiot as he straightened his clothing but stared right in her eyes. "You think I don't know what they do to me? They don't do it much anymore, probably because ..." he waved his hand at her. "You. They want me to work with you, so I have to keep what I know.  But that means I can tell that things are gone," he growled, "and I  _ don't know what _ . I know what I am, I know what I do, but pieces are just  _ missing _ ."

"I'm sorry, I'm really sorry, it was just a --" she shook her head. "I'm sorry. Look, c'mere, c'mere," she beckoned. She took his hand -- the metal one -- and placed it gently on her abdomen. "You're not the only one missing pieces." At his clueless look, she rolled her eyes. "We all get it done. You become a Black Widow, you get the snip. Don't give me those doe eyes," she added sharply. "Can you imagine one of us pregnant?" She puffed out her cheeks and held her arms out in front of her to imitate a big belly, then laughed. "Beautiful, deadly, mysterious Black Widow waddling around like a hippo? So we'd have to get rid of it anyway. And it would ruin all this." She waved her hand up and down her own body. "You think the Project is going to invest all the years and money and training into something that's just going to turn into stretch marks and saggy tits and varicose veins?" She laughed. "Any bitch can breed," she continued in a pompous, nasal accent, obviously imitating one of her teachers."We are Black Widows, not brood mares!"

She sounded so silly that the Soldier could only grin along with her. "So, you know," she said with a shrug, picking a couple of hair pins off the floor, "whatever it is, they're probably doing it for a good reason."

The Soldier watched her moving, crouching, standing. When they sparred, she moved like a knife -- like a balisong really, razor sharp and flicking around faster than the eye could see. But when they walked together, talked together, when no one could see them, she bounced and laughed and tossed her ponytail over her shoulder like a 

{{ _ like a girl _ }}  There were pieces of the Soldier he knew were missing, but then sometimes he could almost feel tiny bits of something hazy in the back of his mind trying to nibble through a fog. Like being almost able to find something he lost long ago

{{ _ ponytails lipstick smiling dancing pretty dresses holding hands _ }}  Watching her move, the Soldier thought that maybe, possibly, he might have found something. It felt like an ache -- yearning, sad, blooming with warmth -- somewhere he didn't even know could hurt.

Natasha had her back to him. She took hold of the length of her hair, twirled it around her hand a couple of times and tied it up close to her head in a knot. She put a single pin in it and it just  _ stayed there _ .

The Soldier knew there were things he didn't know, and he knew that he was thinking in a language he couldn't possibly know but 

{{ _ girls, pal, nothing like 'em _ }}  He felt something in him click perfectly into place.

Natasha looked back at him over her shoulder. "It's okay, you know." Was she blushing? "It's just sex. It doesn't have to mean anything."

He walked over to her and gently ran one finger along the curve of her jawline to cup her chin. Looking down into her eyes, he said, "But it does,"  and carefully, softly kissed her on her lips.

She looked up at him, eyes wide, and whispered a tiny little "Oh."  Like something had just clicked perfectly into place.

*********

When they put him away that night, there was a small metal locker in his quarters. Opening it curiously and somewhat cautiously, he found, neatly folded, a few pairs of undershorts, a few white sleeveless undershirts, and a pair of Army-issue sweatpants. No matching top. No socks. 

The Soldier pulled on the sweatpants, but what interested him most was the locker itself. He ran a hand along a metal seam and manipulated the latch a couple of times. Then he went and sat on his bunk, leaning back against the wall.

He really didn't know why Natasha was so upset about his quarters. It was far better than most soldiers got. It wasn't a barracks, for one thing. A good solid bunk, good blankets, a light he could turn on and off whenever he wanted. And now clothes, in a locker. A  _ private  _ locker. He wasn't naive enough to think it wouldn't be searched regularly, and he didn't know how he would use it -- yet. But it was definitely something he could use for something.

As another false nod to privacy, the closed-circuit camera on the corner of the ceiling was positioned over the toilet, creating a blind spot where he could shit in peace. He'd gotten so used to it that he barely even noticed the little red light that indicated that the camera was on anymore. But as he looked at it, he thought of the water stain in the Major General's office, the non-working elevator, the flickering fluorescent bulb in the mess hall. 

The Soldier turned off the lights, leaving that tiny glowing red dot as the only illumination. But he could see in the dark, so that was no big deal. He climbed on top of the toilet and examined the little wires that looped from the camera, hardwiring it into the wall. He separated one of the wires, and used his metal fingers to snap it.

The little red light went dark.

*******

He didn't see Natasha again for three days. It turned out that all the soldiers he'd been training on the firing range had been evaluated and used to create a "dedicated support team" for him, and now he had to take them on maneuvers. A support team. For the Winter Soldier. The idea was ridiculous, but orders were orders, so now here they all were in the middle of a goddamn forest in February, and he had to teach these guys how to be stealthy knee deep in snow.

He looked the four of them over as they stood waiting for orders as if he actually knew what to do with them. At the end of the line was a skinny blond guy half a head shorter than the others, all beaky nose and huge ears. It was the kid from the firing line. 

"You have got to be kidding. What the hell are you doing here?"

The kid snapped to attention. "I volunteered, Comrade Winter Soldier."

"Why?"

"I wanted to work with the best, sir."

"And the shoulder? The one that I crushed?"

The kid beamed. "Fixed, sir. Turns out it wasn't as bad as expected."

The Soldier puffed out a sigh, and turned to the other three. "Which one of you has seniority here?" One of the soldiers stepped forward. "Fine. The pipsqueak's with you. Make sure he doesn't shoot his own foot off. You two are squad A. You other two are squad B. Now form up and load up." As they hefted their backpacks, the Soldier continued. "Okay. Your job is to watch my six and stay the fuck out of my way. You should be able to operate on your own for the most part unless I give specific orders. Let's move out."

******************

"Mission report complete."

Upon his return, they'd taken the Soldier straight from the truck to a debriefing with the Major General. He was tired, his socks were wet, and all he wanted was hot soup and his bunk, but he did his best to give a complete, detailed report.

The Major General leaned back in his chair and nodded. "Excellent. And now, comrade, your evaluation of their usefulness as a support team."

"They're good soldiers and work very well as a team," the Soldier replied, then shrugged. "I don't know why I need a support team, sir, but I suppose they would be useful as a clean-up crew after me."

The Major General raised his bushy eyebrows. "I see." He shuffled through files on his desk until he found and opened the one he was looking for. He tapped it with one finger. "The Project team have submitted a proposal for a new set of tests. I think they are ... appropriate at this time. Return to the lab," he said, picking up the phone.  They'll get you cleaned up. Dismissed." 

The tests were indeed different. They put an IV in his arm, and whatever was in it made him feel hot and shaky and very groggy. Not groggy enough, though, that he didn't feel them starting to drill a small hole in his skull. They stuck a bitepiece in his mouth when he couldn't hold back the screams.

He woke up on his bunk in the dark with an aching head and a fuzzy feeling in his gut {{ _ goddamn hangover what time is it what have I been drinking? _ }}. He stumbled over to the sink to splash water on his face and drink some from his cupped hand. Then he reached to scratch an itchy spot on his scalp and found a bandage. Then another, and another. Three small bandages equally spaced around his skull. Poking at them, he found they didn't hurt all that bad and whatever was underneath them was already healing over. He pulled on a pair of underpants and an undershirt and sat on the edge of his bunk, hunched over, head supported by his hands.

After some time, he had no idea how long, he sat up with a sigh and looked around his quarters, then up by the corner of the ceiling. The little red light was still out. No one had come to repair it. Either whoever was supposed to be watching him hadn't noticed for three days, or... 

Or no one was watching. The camera was a dummy. 

He got to his feet and looked through the dim, scratched glass of the window on his door. The lab was dark; all he could see was the little dots of light indicating the lab equipment was still running. Or maybe not, he thought. At this point, who knew? 

The Soldier had a strange feeling that he was onto something, but he didn't know what. Like something on the tip of his tongue. He paced back and forth, trying to figure it out. He was doing a lot of back-and-forth because the room was very small. He'd never realized how small it was. He stopped and looked around, his gaze coming to rest on the door. It was plain metal, painted some kind of putty color. It had a small, scratched window... and no doorknob. 

A cell is a room you can't get out of.

It was easy to take apart the latch on his locker and remove the long thin strip of metal that held the door closed. He used his teeth to rip off a small piece of cloth from the hem of his undershirt. Two metal fingers punched a little hole in the metal door, just large enough for him to stick the metal strip through and shimmy the lock open. As he closed the door behind him, he shoved the piece of fabric into where the outside doorknob would engage the lock, making him able to close the door without having it lock behind him. The lock on the case where his uniform was kept was even easier to pick. Combat trousers, leather jacket, boots.

The guard snoozing in his booth by the back entrance to the facility woke up pretty quick when the Soldier snuck up behind him and grabbed him around the neck with the metal hand covering his mouth.

"The next sound you make will be your last," the Soldier hissed. The guard, eyes wide, nodded and held up his hands. Good, he wasn't stupid enough to try to fight back. "I'm going out," the Soldier continued. "In an hour or so I'll be back. You're going to let me out, and you're going to let me in. If you let anyone know, I will kill everyone you love. Slowly. Understood?" The guard nodded again, desperately. "Good. I'm letting you go now. Put both hands on top of your head, and don't make a move.  Oh, and I need your coat."  The Soldier grabbed the duffle coat from its peg on the wall, and only then released the guard. Shrugging on the coat, the Soldier said, "Remember what I told you, or I start with the children." He took one last look at the guy, who looked like he was about to piss his pants. The Soldier sighed and rolled his eyes. "Would it help if I knocked you out?" Once again the guard nodded, so the Soldier gave him a quick, sharp punch to the back of his skull in a place where he'd be out for about 15 minutes or so. When he crumpled to the floor, the Soldier took his pistol as well.

Outside, it was snowing hard -- icy, wet flakes making piles of slush that had turned grey and slippery under constant car and foot traffic. Even with the collar of his heavy coat turned up around his ears and his hands shoved in the pockets, the Soldier trudged hunched against the bitter cold. His hair was drenched and icy water dripped down the back of his neck. 

The streets were dark and quiet. Even stray dogs had found places to hunker down. He encountered no one on the pavement, and only once did a car swoosh past with windshield wipers fighting a losing battle against the snowfall. That would be KGB; very few citizens had cars of their own, and they wouldn't be out at night. Moscow didn't have streetlights, and anyone out after dark was suspect. As for the Soldier, the darkness and his shapeless coat made it easy for him to fade into the night, and the snowfall would cover his footsteps within moments. 

Arriving at the house covered in vines, he ducked around the back to determine his best means of ascent. The house was pale brick and the windowsills were made of stone; he'd have to free climb. There was no way he could make the climb wearing the clumsy woolen coat, so, with a sigh of regret, he rolled it up and stuck it in a bin. Then he jumped up to the first windowsill, shoved his metal hand into the mortar between bricks and vine, and used it as a handhold to start climbing.

**********

There was a tiny scratching sound against the window right by her bed. Then a quiet little tap. Natasha rolled over and breathed gently on the window, creating a small clear spot in the condensation where she could peek out. The Soldier was crouched on her windowsill, and he mouthed the word "roof".

He waited for her in the lee of the roof access doorway and the concrete block that housed the utility equipment. It was just a moment before he saw her hurry to meet him. She was huddled in her fox fur coat and wore a pair of galoshes, with her hair falling out of the long loose braid down her back.

"What's the matter?" She rushed up to him and put her arms around him, her coat falling open to cover them both. Underneath, she was naked.

"I wanted to see you." He ran his fingers through her hair to cup his hand around the back of her head, and kissed her. She leaned into him, standing on her tiptoes, and threw her arms around his neck. The kiss was long, slow and deep. The snow had turned to sleet and coursed down over them, trying to get between them, running down their hair, dripping onto their faces like icy tears.

Still holding the back of her head with his metal hand, he slipped his other hand beneath her coat. As he ran his cold wet fingers lightly over her warm skin, she giggled and shivered against him. He smiled into their kiss, and an amazing feeling of lightheadedness very quickly plummeted south. He'd never known he could get a hard-on through freezing cold wet pants {{ _ learn something new every day, pal _ }} 

He jerked his head back.  Natasha looked up at him in concern (can she see in the dark? he suddenly thought), and she asked him, "Are you okay?" He nodded. Slowly, she reached down and rested her hand on his belt buckle, her touch as light as a whisper. Her voice was a whisper too when she asked, "Do you... want ...?"

"Yes," he said, never more sure about anything in his life. 

She quickly undid his belt buckle and both of them fumbled his trousers and shorts down past his ass. Freezing rain stung his skin, and his cock and balls decided immediate retreat was necessary. There was no way he was going to be able to do this, but damn if he wasn't going to give it a try. He leaned in to kiss her. Her mouth was so damn warm. She looked up at him, her eyes dark as she blinked away the stinging snow and rain, and grinned. "Catch me."

She laced her fingers around the back of his neck and jumped. He grabbed her ass with both hands. She couldn't help but shiver at the touch of his freezing metal hand, and that made his mind freeze too, just for the merest moment, because in that moment he hated himself, he hated that fucking metal hand, and he had never, ever thought that before.

But also in that moment, Natasha wrapped both legs around him, hooking one foot around his waist and bracing the other against the wall behind him, and kissed him as if her life depended on it, fierce and hot and hard...

Yeah. He was going to be able to do this. "Put me in," he growled against her lips. "I've got you." She had to take one hand from around his neck to do it, but he hefted her easily. He could have done it with one hand, and when she wrapped her delicate, callused fingers around his cock and slowly slid herself down, he had the giddy thought that yeah, maybe the metal arm wasn't so bad after all.

They moved together roughly, braced against the wall, Natasha's fur coat settled over them both, giving what shelter it could from the wind and sleet. He let the goddamn metal arm do the heavy lifting and slipped his other hand back inside the coat to run his fingers up her spine. This time when she shivered against him she giggled. He grinned down at her and thrust harder. She pushed herself against him with gritted teeth, grinding almost desperately until she shuddered, arched back in his arms and breathed out a barely whispered little moan.

The bitter cold against his face, her skin so warm against him under the fur coat, the intoxicating heat inside her, and then that moan -- that was it. He felt like he was falling, falling into a thrilling white light, and then bliss.

They kissed and panted against each other's lips. The puffs of their breath created a tiny pocket of warmth between them even as they fumbled apart and and the Soldier pulled his clothes together. 

Natasha gave him one last kiss and pulled back, breathing heavily. "I have to go. I have to be back before Matron does a bed check."

The Soldier blinked, wondering whether he'd heard correctly or was still dizzy from sex. "You have  _ bed checks _ ?" 

"It's nothing," she said, waving it away with a flick of her hand. "The little ones get cuffed to their bunks. See you at breakfast." Before the Soldier could even begin to process that, she ran around the corner and through the roof access door.

The Soldier leaned back against the wall and turned his face to the sky, closing his eyes against the still pelting sleet, and laughed. Then, with a sigh, he pushed himself to stand upright, went to the edge of the roof and vaulted over the ledge to land on the ground below, just one more icy snowflake falling in the dark.

 

**Author's Note:**

> ** "Fuck your mother. It's... actually not as terrible as it sounds" --cjk1701


End file.
